Why Faint Heart Never Won Fair Lady
by Light Rises
Summary: Two unlikely characters of classic literature are brought together under highly peculiar circumstances...


Why Faint Heart Never Won Fair Lady

By Light Rises

**Author's Note:** Yep, folks—this _was_ a school assignment.  But it doesn't seem half bad, so if even _one_ person enjoys this little farce, I'll have been very happy to have posted it.^_^  Anyway, here's a quick overview of my policy: constructive criticism is always welcome, but NO flames, please; they're unnecessarily damaging and they don't help anyone.  I apologize beforehand for messing up either of the characters if I did.  Otherwise, enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Fitzwilliam Darcy and Yasuo Kawamoto—as well as the surprise at the end—are not my original creations.  So no suing is needed.^_^

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The air conditioning finally clicked on; cool air was sent through the vents, wheezing into the room as droplets of moisture dripped from between the slats.  The ventilation shafts themselves (yes, even the guards knew the whole set-up was pretty cliché) ran in rectangular tubes along the ceiling near the walls. The rest of the ceiling was quite nicely covered up in plumbing and air-pressure pipes, some whistling appropriately—softly, but high-pitched enough to bug the heck out of most anyone.

It was no surprise, then, that the young man seated at the card table was no exception.

_Fine accommodations_, he thought sardonically, hugging his pudgy arms to his body and looking around, as if suspicious that he'd been left to a fate quite a bit more unpleasant than he'd been told.  His round face scrunched up, somehow resembling a clenched fist in expression, as he wrinkled his nose; the musty dampness was finally getting to him, and his stomach was beginning to curdle like mad.  As his innards begged him to relinquish their contents, footfalls not too far off sounded.  His attention caught, the young man looked up briefly.  As the door opened, he turned to face forward, folding his hands lightly upon the table in a characteristically genteel manner.

Two wispy, white-clad men led another one in, young like himself who seemed just as indignant about the current circumstances.  The young man at the table noted the new arrival's stance—fully upright, with his chin held high—as well as his peculiar clothing.  He tried to suppress a reaction, but nonetheless arched an eyebrow at the gaudiness of the other's attire.  The new arrival shrugged off the two trying to seat him, pulling a chair out himself and scooting into the place at the table across from the young man.  He urged his escorts out with a stony glare, and very soon the two were left alone in the room.

Several awkward moments passed.  Finally, feeling the moisture thicken in his throat again, the first young man decided to begin the conversation.

"Nice folks here, wouldn't you say?" he queried, attempting a small, wry smile.

The other one glanced at the pipes above, then looked back at his companion with a new, strange wildness in his eyes.  "What in the name of all that is good and dear is going on here?  What _is_ this place?"

The first man, though startled by this demanding tone, put up his hands complacently.  "Don't work yourself up, sir," he said.  "I've heard it's not good for new _kleeks_ to suffer distress so early in their lifecycles."

His brows furrowed at this.  "_Kleeks_?"  The other nodded, and he proceeded to shake his head.  "I've never heard of such things," he went on firmly.  "Forgive me for calling this vein of talk foolish nonsense, but I am quite confident that is precisely what this is."

"Too bad," the first one answered, almost yawningly.  "Because you're one of them."

He smirked internally as the new arrival's eyes widened.  "_What?_"

"Yes." He leaned back some, his almond-shaped eyes glittering in the gloom.  "You see, the folks here are conducting some nice, clandestine research with government funding—whatever country's government that may be.  They insisted that a lot of people wanted to know what their favorite characters from classic novels would be like in the flesh.  So they began to seek out civilian candidates with the DNA—"  He stopped at this, realizing from his archaic garb that his companion mightn't have a clue what he was talking about.  He cleared his throat before continuing.  "What I mean to say is, we were _put together_, memories and all, by other men and women, so they could study how close they were able to come to a living version acceptable to readers.  The truth is, my friend, we only exist in stories and in the minds of those who created and now read them."  Presently, he extended an arm toward the new arrival.  "I am Yasuo Kawamoto—quite well-to-do, if it pleases you to know.  They say I'm from a novel called _The Sound of Waves_, which was written by a Yukio Mishima."  He paused again, pondering.  "I think I knew a Mishima once.  Though, I can tell you now, he was no man of letters…"

The other _kleek_ drummed his fingers together impatiently.  "And I would suppose _this_ is where I introduce myself to you?  Insofar as I know, that is."

Yasuo's wandering thoughts were interrupted.  "Oh, yes!" he blurted.  "Please do."

The young man took in a somewhat shaky breath before speaking.  "I am Darcy—Fitzwilliam Darcy, proprietor of the great estate of Pemberley."  His brows furrowed in thought.  "I…my story…" he started, hesitantly.

"Oh!"  Yasuo reached under the card table, bringing up a thick, PDA type device and starting to key in his request.  The screen went blank for a few seconds, then flashed up the following:

**CHARACTER/SUBJECT:** DARCY, FITZWILLIAM

**SOURCE:** PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

**CREATOR:** AUSTEN, JANE

"Ah, here we go," remarked Yasuo, handing the device over to Darcy.  "I'm confident everything's in order here; you might as well check out _my_ profile, while you're at it.  All that's left for us now is to wait to be paraded in front of the masses.  And that's _before_ we get dissected by those horrid literary analysts."

Now it was Darcy's turn to wrinkle his nose in disgust.  "How unspeakably revolting, that we are to be flaunted about like some amusing spectacle before a rabble of mere commoners!"  He sighed, looking a bit defeated.  "Somehow," he continued, "I find this terribly unbefitting a man such as myself."

"You're telling me," Yasuo said, his eyes briefly widening.  "Consider this: the son of a leading family in our village—an aristocrat, as you might call it—who was set to marry the most exceptional and agreeable girl around, only to be upstaged by some no-name fisherman!  For gods' sake, he wasn't even a _man_, and yet he _still_ won over her and that idiot father of hers!"

Darcy snorted in agreement.  "Yes.  I must admit, I do believe I share similar grievances with you, even if only in part."

Yasuo looked up.  "'In part?'  How's that?"

"Somehow," Darcy started, narrowing his eyes, "you don't strike me as a particularly forthright man."

That struck a nerve.  "_Not 'forthright?'_" Yasuo shouted, standing up.  "How dare you!  What in heaven's name gives _you_ the right to judge so quickly?  What do you know of me?"

Darcy looked thoughtful.  "Hmm…not much, admittedly.  Though perhaps this contrivance shall enlighten me further—"

"Give me that!" Yasuo snatched the device from Darcy and gave him a look of hot-blooded disdain as he slipped it back under the table.  "Contemptable—_and_ ungentlemanly!" he sputtered.

Darcy cocked a brow at him.  "Actually, I am famously known for being 'ungentlemanly'—more often than my fair share, I must say—and I've continued to do _quite_ well for myself, thank you very much."

"Bah!  Then I _know_ you can't be much better!"  Yasuo began pacing his side of the room.  "If it satisfies you, I'll admit that I'm no saint—that I hid at the watering stream in hopes of overtaking that Hatsue girl, to get one up on Shinji, all the while burning with lust and utter contempt!  I tried that and failed; she hates me, and I gained _nothing_."  He suddenly stopped, looking up at Darcy.  "Does that satisfy you?" he asked, tightly.

The gentleman tried to hold his gaze but soon looked down.  "Yes, indeed.  And you are not incorrect in accusing me of not being 'much better.'  Your dishonesty and licentious conduct disgust me to the very core, yes, yet your weaknesses, like mine, revealed themselves in the light of a good woman."  Darcy's eyes began to glow as nostalgia overtook him.  "I recall that day…that day I first proposed to her.  I had always somehow known Elizabeth was my match in everything, even when I would have disregarded any such feelings towards a seemingly mediocre creature.  So when the time came to make my love for her clear, the heartbreak—not to mention humiliation—was only all the worse with her ardent rejection.  And what disengaged her so?  My dwelling too heartily upon the latter—our incompatibility, _her_ inferiority.  Oh, how sickeningly _vain_ I was!  Worse to imagine, nevertheless, is how exceedingly close I was to losing my dear, dear Elizabeth forever."

The sourness on Yasuo's face, which had been fading throughout this spiel, now completely disappeared.  "Ah.  So, you see, we _both_ have stubborn foibles!" he said, almost teasingly.  Then a thought struck him, urging him to go on delicately.  "But, it makes me curious…how _did_ you redeem yourself and gain her affections?"

Darcy laughed.  "If I had a thing to do with it, it was by going against my nature—performing a munificent gesture when it wasn't to my advantage to do so.  I tried kindness, sweetness first toward Elizabeth, and then found myself saving her wretched sister from disgrace.  It was during this time I learned to forget our differences in stature—at least long enough to love her, _truly_ love her.  And this, my friend, is how I gained that elusive, all-encompassing happiness."

Yasuo's smile was small, bittersweet.  "The secret was taking a risk, huh?"

"I am not one for platitudes; but, then, who's to say that 'faint heart _ever_ won fair lady?'"

Yasuo only half-nodded.  Slowly, he returned to his seat, his eyes uncharacteristically soft and distant.  "Then I guess I was not meant to find happiness."  He noticed Darcy's puzzled expression and continued.  "The _Utajima-maru_—it was the ship I was assigned to, to test my manliness, my worth as a mate to Terukichi Miyata's daughter.  I remember doing very little—nothing impressive—and when _my_ moment came, when everything was literally on the line, I gladly stood aside.  I let _Shinji_ take all the glory because I was a quivering, whiny mass—a _coward_ to the marrow.  And Shinji isn't; has never been, I guess.  He smiled and wasn't afraid at all…"  His voice trailed off, so that he only mouthed, "Not afraid at all."  After a reflective moment, he said,  "You see, Mr. Darcy, Yasuo Kawamoto was never anything more than a glorified heap of hot air and glib words.  No character, no integrity…just empty, listless bravado.  So, in the end, I would have amounted to nothing.  There was, after all, nothing there to begin with."

Yasuo finally looked at his audience.  Darcy had been rendered speechless, could only stare at his companion with a vague sense of repulsed pity.  An emotion was swelling in Yasuo's throat, tense and strangely persistent.  His voice reflected that tautness as he spoke again, lowly this time.

"But I have good, useful qualities…whereas I can never fight, I could always be the pragmatist.  I am cunning—I've done my fair share of scheming to warrant that—and I possess the power of persuasion; surely _that_ can be handy somehow."  His eyes abruptly glinted, and he flashed a long, wide smile at Darcy which seemed almost…wicked.  "But, most importantly, I am _uncommonly_ resourceful," he finished with clearly dangerous undertones.

Darcy, for the most part, kept a straight face.  After letting the moment sink in, he pursed his lips at the young man.  "…Perhaps it is best if you pursue courage and leave it at that," he said slowly.  Now there were dangerous undertones to _his_ voice.

Yasuo's face loosened, seeming to draw a blank.  It was clear he had gotten the message.  "Sure," was all he said.

The door swung open, and the two turned in time to see their white-clad escorts reenter the room.  One bowed slightly, reaching out a thin hand to make a beseeching gesture.

Yasuo sighed.  "Well, it's off to the mess hall for me!  Sorry, but I'm afraid that new _kleeks_ must stick to a non-solids diet for the first three months."

Darcy didn't even attempt to hide his disgust.  "_Ugh!_"

"Don't fret," Yasuo assured him, smiling.  "A good friend of mine's still down there, too, and you'll probably get a chance to meet him."

The gentleman's spirits seemed to brighten at this.  "This sounds quite promising.  But how, precisely, I am to tell your friend from the other, er, _kleeks_?"

Yasuo chuckled.  "Oh, don't worry; he'll be _plenty_ easy to find.  Just look for the purple, eight-limbed lizard monster with pink-tipped fronds and green eyes."

Darcy's look of utter bewilderment and obvious wonder at Yasuo's sanity was, at least to Yasuo, priceless.

Again Yasuo sighed.  "Look, just ask for Randall and everything will be set, all right?  And give it time, please.  For some reason, I think you two will get along _very_ well…"


End file.
